


Harmless Things

by J_Baillier



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angry John, Angst, BAMF Molly, Drugged Sherlock, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, John is a Very Good Doctor, John is really not okay, Medical Conditions, Medical Realism, Medical hurt/comfort, Mental Breakdown, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Poor Sherlock, Protective John, Sad John, Scorpion stings, Serious Illness, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Is Not Okay, Sick Sherlock, Sickfic, Vulnerable Sherlock, internal monologue about borderline platonic bedsharing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-19 14:50:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4750349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Baillier/pseuds/J_Baillier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is definitely not how John had imagined their Saturday night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was NOT supposed to be writing anything until my big work project is done. Then this thing pops into my head in the night like Trogdor. 
> 
> Strange abbreviations and other medical terms are explained in the Author's notes of individual chapters.

"I'd never have thought that insect enthusiasts might be such a murderous bunch," Lestrade comments as the three of them stand by the front door of the victim's house, waiting for forensics to wrap up their part.

Sherlock shoots him an indignant look. "Scorpions are not insects, they're arachnids, a subgroup of arthropods. Even John knows this, I'm sure."

John crosses his arms. "'Even me?'"

Sherlock flashes him a smile which is enough to shut him up. "Anyway, all you need to do is to round up those in the victim's social circles that share an interest in scorpions, and find out which one has the biggest beef with him. No other kind of perpetrator would have gone to such trouble to sabotage his menagerie and leave his valuables undisturbed."

Lestrade sticks his hands into his pockets. "Makes sense. No one else than another creepy-crawly fan would ever dare let any of those damned things out of their boxes. Sorry you got stung by the last one, mate."

The victim had been found in the room that housed his pets, and some of the plastic boxes the scorpions were being kept in had been opened and their contents spread all over the room. Pest controllers had failed to notice one small specimen still lurking around. Sherlock had found it when inspecting the victim's clothing when it had plunged its stinger into the palmar side of his wrist.

Sherlock raises his left hand as though admiring a ring to inspect the red blotch that has appeared. "Quite like a bee sting, nothing worse."

John shifts his weight and the gravel grinds under his shoe. "Are you sure it was a harmless one that got you?"

Sherlock gives him an exasperated look. "I am very familiar with all arachnid species capable of producing clinically relevant toxins. The Tityus stigmurus, which I'm quite positive that thing was, is a popular bark scorpion to be kept as a pet. 66% of such stings only produce mild local symptoms and 20% are asymptomatic. Harmless things, really."

Their ride arrives in the form of a patrol car and Lestrade opens the back door for John and Sherlock. 

Sherlock frowns. "Do I need to remind you that I dislike police cars?"

"Yeah, but as John pointed out, it's Saturday night so good luck getting a cab. It's the least I can do since I don't actually pay you for your services."

John and Sherlock settle into the back seat while Lestrade rides shotgun, making some calls pertaining to their case while their driver, a uniformed constable, negotiates the evening traffic.

"I don't think it's surprising that stuff like this could happen in some sort of a hobby circle. I think the scariest people flock to those. My mum grew roses and it was a wonder there weren't any murders committed during their horticultural society ladies' luncheons," John muses.

He notices Sherlock idly massaging his left arm.

John leans closer to get a look. Sherlock drapes the hand into his coat lapel. "It just itches. I'll put a bag of peas on it once we get home."

"Your nose is running," John points out.

"That's hardly alarming, since it's November," Sherlock scoffs.

 

 

 

John carefully watches Sherlock while they settle into their usual post-case evening routine. He sits in his armchair and pretends to read a novel. Despite Sherlock's reassuring lecture at the victim's house, something is making him uneasy. 

Sherlock seems nervous as well. He spends an hour just walking from room to room, banging around the kitchen cabinets, stares furiously at something that he's pulled up on his laptop, finally changing into his dressing gown a little before ten p.m. Then he settles in front of his microscope. 

"You look a bit pale and sweaty," John points out from behind a newspaper as Sherlock adjusts the coarse and fine focuses.

"Nonsense," Sherlock replies and fiddles with some slides he fishes out of a small box. 

John puts his now empty mug on a saucer on the coffee table and puts down the newspaper entirely. He then turns to get a proper look at Sherlock. 

Short of a better term, the man looks like an addict in full-on withdrawal. He is ashen grey, his hands are shaking, he keeps blinking as tears are appearing at the corners of his eyes even though he is clearly not crying in the traditional sense. He keeps wiping his nose on the sleeve of his dressing gown and is making a fist with his left hand when it isn't required to turn a slide. as though the hand is bothering him somehow.

John straightens his spine. Time to put the foot down. He grips the armrests of his chair for a moment for fortification.

"Sherlock," he calls out.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock doesn't look away from the microscope.

"You all right?" John asks, carefully trying to keep his tone light. 

"Yes, yes," comes the dismissive reply. Sherlock then swallows visibly and draws a deep, ragged breath.

"You look like you're about to have a panic attack or something. Do you want me to guess what's wrong, or...?"

Sherlock lays his right palm on the dining table. His left one he's letting hang limp against his thigh. Even through John is a good four metres away from the kitchen, he can make out that the wrist looks a bit swollen.

Sherlock is decidedly not looking at him. "I may have made a slight mistake," Sherlock admits while intently peering into the microscope. He is clearly choosing his words carefully.

John blinks. It's very unlike Sherlock to ever admit anything like that. "Go on."

Sherlock leans back on his chair. He sniffs as his nose is running rampant again. He then stands up and grabs his laptop from the kitchen counter and flips the lid open. He carries the laptop over and balances it onto the armrest his John's armchair. "This," he points at the image of a scorpion on the screen, "Is what I was certain was the one that Mr Hausman was keeping and what had been let loose following his murder."

The picture on the screen depicts a smallish, yellow scorpion with a black head, a black stripe along its back and a black-tinted stinger.

"Sure," John says. He hadn't gotten a very good look at the creature before it had gotten crushed under Anderson's rubber boot. 

Sherlock wipes his damp palm onto his dressing gown and then quickly switches to another tab on his browser. "Whereas it was actually this one," he says, in a tone that's slightly bitter.

This image is of a strikingly similar scorpion, but this one's back is all black instead of just a stripe.

"Should I be worried?" John asks carefully.

Sherlock takes a deep breath. "This is the Tityus Serrulatus, the Brazilian yellow scorpion. Did you treat any scorpion bites in Afghanistan?"

"Did I ever. We hated those little fuckers. Had to airlift one of our guys out of Kandahar in critical condition after getting stung by what I think is called the Deathstalker."

Sherlock looks impressed. "The Leiurus quinquestriatus. Common to many desert areas. Quite a nasty one, I'll admit."

John suddenly puts two and two together. "Please tell me it wasn't one of those?"

Sherlock coughs and shifts to stand next to John's chair. "Fortunately, no. But this one does have a bit of a reputation for containing quite a potent venom. Usually with adult humans it causes some degree of pain, some parasympathetic activation and nausea."

"You sound pretty cavalier about it."

"I barely felt the sting. Probably wasn't a substantial envenomation."

"Still. Sherlock, we need to look into this. Make sure you'll be all right."

"I live with a doctor. Why wouldn't I be alright?"

John moves the laptop from the armrest to the coffee table. He grabs Sherlock's wrist gently and turns it so that he can see the sting mark. It doesn't look too bad - Sherlock's comparison to a bee sting seems apt. It's red, there's a swollen blotch the size of a penny and a wider, more faint ring of redness surrounding it with a diameter of about ten centimetres but that's mostly it. No blisters, no bruising. It's hard to even make out the exact spot where the stinger had hit. 

Sherlock hisses when John pokes the centre of the redness with his finger. "Painful?" John asks.

"Very," Sherlock admits. 

John's fingers move to the radial side of the wrist. "Christ. Your heart rate's got to be at least 120. Sit down. I'll get you something for the pain," he says and gets up from his chair. 

Sherlock slumps down onto the sofa. "No need. Took an ibuprofein already."

"All right. I still need to get my kit."

Sherlock looks indignant but John is clearly not listening to protests. John gets up and goes upstairs to rummage around his room. 

Sherlock wraps his dressing gown tighter around him and leans onto the backrest of the sofa, closing his eyes. He fights the urge to scratch his wrist - it itches, but touching it sets off a searing, burning pain that will wreck all attempts to focus on anything else.

In a few minutes John returns with his medical bag and Sherlock opens his eyes, wiping the now ever more floridly flowing tears from his eyes. They just keep coming, even though he's not sad and there's nothing irritating his eyes. Parasympathetic activation, Sherlock reminds himself.

John digs out some instruments from the worn old leather bag of his. He sits down on the sofa next to Sherlock and lays a palm on his friend's knee, looking him in the eye. "Sherlock. You need to tell me right now what's going on. No details spared." His tone invites no arguments.

Sherlock draws in a ragged breath. "I'm cold and feel a bit nauseated. Heart rate up a bit, as you noticed. Difficult to focus - which is the newest development. For instance, can't really make out that headline--" He points his finger at John's newspaper that's on the floor, "Excessive lacrimation and production of saliva. Most annoying."

"Chest pain?" John asks while lifting Sherlock's eyelids one after the other with his thumb and pointing a penlight in, looking at the pupil reactions. 

"None as such." Droplets of sweat are now forming on Sherlock's hairline. John touches the back of his hand on Sherlock's forehead. "You're a bit warm but not properly feverish, I'd say."

"Ibuprofein must've done something then."

John rubs his stethoscope onto his palm to warm it up with friction and then gingerly pulls aside the right lapel of Sherlock's dressing gown, pushing down the T-shirt underneath in the process. "Might be a bit cold, this thing, sorry. He listens to some spots and Sherlock tries his best to breathe normally, even though it's getting increasingly difficult. His heart is racing, and he can't make out whether it's that or his rising panic that's causing his to breathe faster.

"Any difficulty breathing?" John asks, taking off the earpieces of the stethoscope. 

"Not really."

"Not really as in 'don't want to tell John' or not really as in no?"

"Don't know." Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment as another wave of nausea hits.

"Lie down, for Chrissakes, until you pass out," John commands, standing up so that Sherlock can have all of the sofa to himself.

"Brazilian yellow bark scorpion, was that the one?" John asks sternly.

Sherlock nods, shivering.

John walks to the foyer to get his phone out of his jacket pocket. "Right. I need to call Gracie."

"Gracie?" Sherlock frowns.

"Gracie Harris was my uni girlfriend's flatmate. Bit of a nutter but turned into a damned good infectious and tropical disease specialist. Works at the Hospital for Tropical Diseases on Tottenham Court Road and consults all over London hospitals. I used to call her from Afghanistan if I couldn't figure out what to do such patients."

"Why is she a nutter?"

"She keeps spiders. Dozens and dozes of them. Poisonous ones. Don't think she's got any scorpions but she seemed to know quite a bit about them due to her training."

Sherlock waves a hand dismissively at John from the sofa. "Do what you must."

John selects a contact, presses the call button and manages to get through. "Hey yourself. And sorry for calling so late. I know it's fine but still. Yeah, long time no see but listen, I need your help. Flatmate's gotten stung by this thing--".

Sherlock tries to focus on breathing while John takes his time on the phone. Sherlock tries to listen in, but the throbbing of his hand and the general feeling of like the worst case of flu in history are slowly taking over his body, which is making it very hard to focus. If he opens his eyes, everything shifts and blurs but if he keeps his eyes closed it feels like he's in freefall, sense of balance disappearing, head spinning even though he's certain he's still quite stationary. 

John ends the call, slides his phone into his coat pocket and grabs his and Sherlock's coats. He brings them over to the sofa and gently wraps Sherlock's heavy woolen coat around the man's torso.

"Try and put this on. We need to go."

Sherlock squints. "What?" he manages and tries to keep John in focus. This is hateful. It's like being extremely inebriated, which he never is. "Why?"

"You never let me call 999 no matter what's going on, so if you can get dressed, we're getting a cab to Barts. Gracie's agreed to meet us there even though she's officially on research leave."

Sherlock tries to sit up but his head spins even worse and he dry-heaves. John's hand circles around his shoulders and gently pulls his upright. "Why can't we stay here?" he stammers even though he can deduce the answer.

"Gracie made it clear that we need to get you to an ICU bed right now. Can you stand up?"

Sherlock's cheeks are already tinted red from the nausea and the fever but there's a hint of embarrassment now mixed in as well. "Not sure."

"I can work with that," John replies determinedly and wraps his arms around Sherlock's waist, pulling him up. "Unless you'll let me call emergency services, that is."

John gently lets go and Sherlock tries to keep upright on his own to no avail. John's quick reflexes prevent him from collapsing onto the coffee table. 

John wrangles him back onto the sofa. Sherlock closes his eyes again.

"Talk to me," John orders. 

"A bucket and an ambulance would be nice right about now, John."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you like to meet our guest star?  
> http://www.scorpionsworld.fr/pages/buthidae/tityus-c-l-koch-1836/tityus-serrulatus-lutz-mello-1922.html
> 
> The emergency department of St Bartholomew's hospital was actually closed in 1995, but the place remains a busy teaching hospital and has both an ICU and a HDU (high-dependency unit).


	2. Chapter 2

The cold night air seems to have helped a little - Sherlock's shirt is still damp with sweat but he looks calmer and is no longer dry-heaving, although he grips the emesis bowl tightly in his fingers all the way to St Bartholomews' Accidents & Emergency department.

John helps the EMTs wheel his flatmate into one of the acute care bays, where Dr Harris is already waiting for them, accompanied by an older male doctor who she introduces as one of the ICU consultants. She hugs John and extends a hand towards Sherlock. "Dr Harris."

Instead of shaking her hand Sherlock passes her the emesis bowl. At least it's empty.

John greets the ICU physician. "Don't mind him, he hates hospitals," he points out, nodding towards Sherlock.

Sherlock fixes his gaze an Dr Harris as best as he can - his vision is still distorted. "John's my doctor."

Dr Harris quirks a smile. "We know. He can stay as long as he concedes to my command," she jokes. 

Sherlock frowns and looks away towards the opposite wall. 

"Give me the stats," Dr Harris tells John while the ICU attending digs out a notepad and a pen. Two nurses begin disconnecting the disposable monitoring devices used in the ambulance and replacing them with the hospital's similar systems.

"We had a case and were at a murder victim's house. Some of those boxes the guy kept his scorpions in had been knocked over and we thought pest control had already caught them. Around eight p.m., when he was digging around the corpse, Sherlock got stung by the last one still loose. It had hidden inside its owner's sleeve."

"Fucking hell," Sherlock suddenly gasps and all eyes turn to him. 

One of the nurses is raising up his left arm. The anatomical limits of wrist can no longer be recognized. The whole limb has at least doubled in size and skin has begun to crack in places because of the extreme swelling, the cracks exuding clear fluid. 

John grabs a pair of gloves and the other doctors follow suit. "You didn't notice this before?" he asks Sherlock.

Sherlock is squeezing his eyes shut and arching his back, breathing heavily. "Letgoletgoletgo," he moans and the nurse gently lowers his arm onto a tray table. "Wasn't like that an hour ago," he says and grits his teeth. "Fucking hurts."

John lays his palm on his friend's shoulder and looks at his colleagues. "He never curses."

Dr Harris bites her lip. "Right." She turns to the nurses. "Oxycodone infusion, please, five milligrams an hour. Four units of FFP." She glances at the monitors and doesn't like what she sees. "And we need an arterial line," she adds, already headed towards one of the cabinets to get what she needs in order to start one. 

Sherlock suddenly grabs her sleeve. "No opiates," he gasps.

Dr Harris looks at him, confused. "Allergic?"

"Don't want to --- Disappoint John," he says and tries to turn on his side. Dr Harris' face is a question mark as she looks at John.

John shoves their patient back onto lying on his back. "It disappoints me a whole lot more to see you in pain, you stupid clot. We'll worry about all the other stuff later."

Dr Harris seems to put two and two together. "Oh," she says quietly and returns to digging around the drawers. She looks over her shoulder to the third doctor, who's starting a second IV. Sherlock doesn't even seem to notice the small sting, since his other arm feels like it's on fire.

"Charlie, could you sort out the labs? We can then take over from here," Dr Harris tells the ICU consultant

John stands by the bed and peels off his gloves. "Who's going to be in charge of him?"

Dr Harris sprays Sherlock's wrist with disinfectant for the arterial line. "You and me. The ICU's a bit short-staffed because there's people off sick and since I consult and moonlight on-call shifts here all the time and you have admittance privileges as well, we agreed that Charlie here can ease off a bit. It's not like I get scorpion cases everyday and I'm pretty damn sure you wouldn't be able to resist sticking your nose into his treatment."

"Fair enough."

 

 

 

An hour later, Sherlock is tucked away in bed at the ICU, somewhat calmer after a dose of sedative and a steady stream of opiate dripping from an infusor. Even his heartrate has lowered a bit, but John isn't any less worried as he and Dr Harris peer at thoracic x-rays on the corner table monitor.

"I think this explains the slightly iffy arterial oxygen level," Harris says, poking his finger on the screen and then using her sleeve to wipe her fingerprints off. "He's a bit congested. We often see some level of lung oedema with snake, spider and other stings and bites."

John glances at Sherlock. His breathing is a little laborious but steady and deep. "He's saturating fine. I really wouldn't want to get into a fight with him over CPAP. What about antivenom?"

Gracie shuts off the radiology interface and brings the electronic lab printouts onto the screen. "We have a polyvalent scorpion antivenom, but it's horse-based and we try to avoid giving it if we absolutely don't have to. It's stockpiled at the Tottenham Court Road facility so I can get hold of it if need be but we're not quite there yet."

"If you think so." John sits down on the only chair in the private room they've been issued after Dr Harris had pulled some strings. It was nice having an insider at their disposal, instead of having to call Mycroft to get things like that. John hated pulling strings to obtain special treatment but he had enough experience dealing with Sherlock to know that exposing innocent bystander patients to the man when he was tired, sick and annoyed was bound to end in a verbal massacre of some sorts. "Thanks for getting this room, Gracie, by the way."

Gracie bites her lip. "It's not just a perk, I'm afraid." She glances at Sherlock as if to make sure he's still sleeping. "The last case I had went so nuts she knocked the teeth out from a male nurse twice her size. Granted, that was from some fat-tail variety, which are worse, but still. She was married to some idiot arachnid collector who'd left for a weekend fishing trip and told his wife to feed his pets. He forgot to mention which of them were the ones to really look out for."

John swallows. "Did she survive?"

"Yeah. But I need to warn you. This is going to get bad, and then it's going to get a hell of a lot worse."

John drags a hand through his hair. "Not what I had in mind when I woke up this morning. Saturday, how lovely, don't have to go to work, might get a case, have a late-night dinner if Sherlock solves it."

Gracie crosses her arms and stiffens a yawn. It's midnight, after all. "Did he?"

John smiles at his flatmate's sleeping form. "Yeah. In about four minutes."

 

 

Sherlock wakes up an hour later. John stretches his arms and drags his chair closer to the bed.

Sherlock sits up in bed, taking in his surroundings. "Vision's improved," he remarks and sneezes. He dabs his eyes with a corner of the blanket because they're still watering.

John glances at the monitors. Heart rate is not too high but Sherlock's blood pressure is reaching alarming numbers. "How's everything else?" he asks.

"I wish this tear and snot part would stop already. You tell me, since you've probably gotten back more test results by now."

"Some fluid in your lungs, I'm afraid. We did an echo when you were sleeping - there's mild ventricular dysfunction so we gave you some prazocin which they often use with scorpion stings but it hasn't done anything to your blood pressure yet. Your glucose levels are up as would be expected - it's something we saw in Afghanistan as well. Your liver enzymes are elevated. And it's only been a couple of hours," John says quietly, letting Sherlock deduce what he means.

"She's good, isn't she, your lady friend," Sherlock asks before succumbing to a fit of coughing. "I like her."

John is taken aback. "She's not my 'lady friend', she's a colleague and you never like anybody. Is this because she keeps poisonous pets?" 

"She doesn't hide behind that ridiculous medical jargon as much as you. And she keeps poisonous pets. She can stay."

"I'll tell her you said that."

"Don't you dare. I have a reputation to uphold."

There isn't a constant temperature monitor set up so John contends to using the back of his hand, pressing it onto Sherlock's forehead. "You're burning up."

"I don't feel so well."

John raises his brows. "You need to throw up?"

"No, that's mostly--- passed. I wonder if this what a heart attack feels like?"

"What do you mean?"

"Arm's all tingly, pulse is somehow... off and bothersome. A bit tight to breathe," he admits with a defeated tone.

John takes his hand and gives it a squeeze. "It's about what we can expect. You're getting some skipped and extra beats but they're benign, really. Lots of adrenaline in the system so your heart's a bit taxed at the moment."

John stands up to go to use the restroom. "I'll be right back." 

He tries to let go of Sherlock's hand but the man grips it tighter. 

"What?" John asks, "I'm just going to the loo. You want anything to drink?"

Sherlock draws in a ragged breath. "No, I'm--" he pauses but John can read in his eyes what he's trying to verbalize. He actually looks quite frightened. 

John's mind floats back to a memory of an evening sitting in front of the fireplace at the Cross Keys in Dartmoor. It's not as bad now as it was back then, but Sherlock's expression is strikingly similar to the one he wore while holding that glass of whisky in his shaking hands.

John stops trying to extricate his hand. "It's the adrenaline and all the other junk this venom's bringing out, you know, that's making you feel like this. Fight or flight." He tries to sound reassuring.

John knows it's not just the adrenaline. If Sherlock is as well-versed in poisonous substances produced by these creatures as he claims, he must be aware of what's likely to lie ahead. 

Sherlock finally lets go of his hand and lets his own fall limp onto the blanket covering his legs.

John straightens his posture. "Look, we have you where you need to be, we won't miss any new developments since you're being monitored 24/7. Whatever you need, we can get it. Plus you've got two experts watching over you."

Sherlock looks up. "Dr Harris and who?"

"Prat. Get some sleep if you can. I'll be back in a minute."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scorpions don't bite, they sting. The poison they carry is referred to as a venom for this reason - venoms are injected as opposed to poisons, which are inhaled, absorbed or ingested. It's all semantics, really. I don't think people who keep scorpions or spiders are nutters at all. Scorpions are quite fascinating, spiders I can sort of live with since they are very, very useful and the ones in my home country are small and harmless, but centipedes, jeez......*shudder*!
> 
> I don't work for the NHS so if I accidentally use American terms for things and places when it comes to the medical side of this story, sorry :) I'd love to hear about it, though, so I can learn.
> 
> Assorted medical bits'n'pieces that I want to spare you the trouble of googling:
> 
> ICU = intensive care unit. If a patient needs constant monitoring of vitals, infused medications to control things such as blood pressure, ventilator treatment, deep sedation or one or two of their vital organs is in jeopardy etc, they might end up in one of these. There are also slightly less intensively monitored units, like the ones where cardiac patients are often placed in, that are sort of a cross between ICUs and regular wards. 
> 
> The deal that Dr Harris has struck with the ICU consultant is a bit unorthodox. Neither she or John are on the hospital's permanent payroll, so allowing them to take over the care of a patient would be probably be a bit legally problematic. But hey, artistic license and all that.
> 
> FFP = fresh-frozen plasma. The component of donated blood that contains, among other things, coagulant factors. After infusing, it stays inside veins better than clear fluids, which have a stronger tendency to seep out through vessel walls.
> 
> Oxycodone = synthetic opioid, AFAIK not as widely used in the UK as morphine. For some reason morphine isn't recommended to be used on scorpion bite patients. Oxycodone is quite similar in potency, but with less side effects and histamine release than morphine. Addiction potential is similar, though, which is what occurs to Sherlock here as well.
> 
> Arterial line = a small cannule inserted into a patient's artery. Can be used to take blood samples and to constantly monitor blood pressure instead of waiting for a cuff to inflate every few minutes. Most ICU patients have these. 
> 
> CPAP = continuous positive airway pressure. Used in the treatment of pulmonary oedema (=excessive fluid in the lungs) due to heart dysfunction, among other things. Usually done via a face mask. Also used by many patients at home for the treatment of sleep apnoea.


	3. Chapter 3

In the early hours of the morning, John is napping in his chair, leaning onto the small corner table with his elbows at a rather uncomfortable angle. Any tiny blip from the monitors, any footstep passing the door is enough to rouse him. It's not rest in any sense of the word, merely a way to pass the time.

Someone drops something outside in the hallway, making a racket. John raises his head, rubbing his eyelids with his thumbs. During his days as a trauma house officer in this very hospital, these were the worst hours, between two a.m. and the morning. It was during those hours when sleep mildened even the biggest adrenaline rushes of the shift and the pager became the mortal enemy of rest.

John stands up, leaning his head onto his shoulder and rolling it to the other side to get rid of the developing crick. 

He idles to the side of Sherlock's bed, trying to force his sleep-deprived brain to process the information the monitors are presenting. Everything else is negligible but the reading of the pulse oximeter, which is giving off a slight whine since numbers haven't reached proper alarm limits yet but slowly approaching that state.

Sherlock is fast asleep. His breathing is shallow and there's a bluish tint on his lips that shakes the last remnants of sleep from John's mind. When Sherlock exhales, there's a slight wheezing noise audible even without a stethoscope.

John grabs the bed control console and brings the head of the bed up a bit. He wonders if the descending saturation reading is something he ought to call Gracie about. On the other hand, if they need to do anything to further alleviate the situation, John will need a pulmonologist or an anaesthetist - respiratory support is not part of Grace's field. 

John is confident about his basic skills in respiratory support, but somehow the exhaustion and the fact that this isn't just any patient, it's Sherlock, makes him somewhat uneasy and prone to second-guess his assessments.

John rummages around the cupboard and finds an oxygen mask and hose set with a 40% valve. He attaches it into a wall outlet and turns on the flow. There's a reassuring whoosh of oxygen coming from the mask when he presses it against his ear to check that it works.

Trying to be as careful as he can, he gently presses the mask onto Sherlock's face and slips the rubber bands around his head. Sherlock doesn't exactly wake up, but his hand creeps up to his face, trying to push the mask off as though it were a fly landing on his nose in the middle of a REM cycle.

John holds the mask in place and Sherlock's hand falls back onto the pillow next to his cheek as he's lying on his side. He doesn't want to up the oxycodone drip in case it will start to depress Sherlock's breathing function too much while he sleeps. 

After a moment of observation, John lets go of the mask. Sherlock does not stir from his slumber. John returns to his chair and starts to nod off himself, but suddenly the sound of heavy coughing startles him. He scrambles to his feet and hurries to the bedside. The monitors began emitting a nerve-wracking, high-pitched whine.

Sherlock is now awake and sitting up, coughing heavily and frantically trying to rip the oxygen mask off his face. John strides to stand next to him and grabs hold of his fingers. "Stop," he commands, and firmly holds the mask in place. "It's fine, calm down," John tells him. Sherlock claws at John's fingers which are holding the mask in place as he struggles to draw in a proper breath while bringing up a small amount of pink-tinted foam. 

After seconds that feel like hours, he finally calms down and the monitors stop whining. Sherlock slumps back onto the pillows, chest still heaving but no longer looking like he's about to pass out. Despite John's protests, he tears off the oxygen mask. To John's relief his saturation doesn't tank but isn't close to normal either. 

John presses the call button, and when a nurse arrives he orders new chest films and arterial blood gas samples, falling back on the medical routines developed through endless hours of nighttime emergency room practice. When the results are ready, John summons the ICU's on-call anaesthetist. If Sherlock needs what John thinks he needs, John'll need backup to convince Sherlock to submit to what he's planning.

Sherlock is coughing heavily again when the two doctors take their position at the end of the bed. Sherlock looks like he's on the brink of exhaustion, the muscles in his neck retracting as attempts to inhale properly.

"Sherlock, we need to hook you up to a ventilator mask."

"Meaning?" Sherlock wheezes, looking indignant.

"Your lungs need a bit of help to function."

"No kidding," the man says, gripping the downpushed bed railing as another nearly rib-breaking fit of coughing takes over. He spits out more reddish foam into an emesis basin held out by the ICU anaesthesia consultant.

"You won't like it. And you won't be able to talk while it's on."

"What if I don't---" Sherlock wheezes and the monitors wail out a warning again, "--consent to this?"

The anaesthetist, a grey-haired plump man in his late fifties, opens his mouth. "You'll be likely to end up in a proper respirator, intubated, for which we'd have to put you under."

Sherlock leans forward, now voluntarily grabbing hold of the regular oxygen mask still lying on the bed, holding it to his face as the blue tint reappears on his lips. "Help me, John," he pleads quietly.

John nods to his colleague who opens the room door, and soon a nurse appears, towing in a machine about the height of a washing machine but altogether much smaller. Sherlock is looking at John, slightly apprehensive.

John leans onto the bed end and takes in the scene as a pressure support mask gets tightly strapped onto Sherlock's face by the anaesthetist and his assistant. He can't tear his eyes off Sherlock's pleading gaze that's directed right at him.

John swallows. There are many things he could say, banal reassurances he would use with his actual patients. Now they'd probably all ring hollow. Sherlock sees everything, including right through John's professional theatrics. Right now John wishes that Sherlock can't read the true extent of his worry.

He takes Sherlock's hand and quietly strokes it with his thumb, as the man tries out his first lungfuls of oxygen-rich air, assisted by the BiPAP machine. It takes awhile to get into a synchronized rhythm with the machine and some adjustments are made to find a suitable triggering level.

"Okay?" John asks and Sherlock nods, but his eyes still betray a state of alarm. John is aware that this sort of treatment can feel a bit claustrophobic for a patient.

The anaesthetist and his assistant leave after telling John to get in touch if there's anything that needs readjusting. John nods absent-mindedly while his eyes never leave Sherlock.

Sherlock leans back on the raised bed, closing his eyes. It's quiet apart from the steady whirr of the ventilation unit.

Sherlock turns on his side, trying not to entangle his monitor lines in the mask straps. He looks tired, resigned but at least his stats are up.

Without a word, John sits down onto the bed and lets his arm land on Sherlock's shoulder. John then lies down on his side, arranges himself behind the man and pulls him close. This really isn't the sort of thing flatmates do, really, but right now nothing could feel more purposeful, more normal. It's not what a doctor would do, either, but John couldn't care less.

He presses his face into Sherlock's sweaty curls. "Trust me," he whispers, and in a moment he feels Sherlock relaxing in his grip. They stay like this, breathing in unison, Sherlock's back against his chest, until Sherlock's breathing slows and deepens, signaling that he's probably fallen asleep.

John knows he's sort of expected to leave Sherlock be now, to get up and continue his vigil by the bedside, but he can't bring himself to let go. He lets himself drift off until several hours later a nurse comes in to change the bacterial filters of the BiPAP machine.

John smiles sheepishly at the nurse as he slowly disentangles himself from Sherlock.

 

 

 

The night is uneventful. They manage to lower the BiPAP settings without it affecting Sherlock's arterial blood gases and in the early hours on the morning Sherlock wakes up despite the sedation and determinedly drags the mask off his face. Gracie managed to convince John not to replace it immediately until they've gotten the results of the latest echocardiography assessment. When the cardiologist calls with his news, John wants to cork a champagne: there's no sign of cardiac dysfunction anymore. At least they've crossed that hurdle. No further respiratory support is needed unless there's a novel complication with the venom. Doesn't mean they're out of danger, though, far from it. 

A little before 9 a.m. Dr Harris is on the phone, watching John eating a sandwich in the doctors' break room. When John looks up she covers the mouthpiece with her hand. "Sherlock's got a brother, then?" she mouths. 

John nods. "That him?"

Gracie's eyes narrow. "How the hell does he have access to our records?" she whispers, looking suspicious. 

John looks annoyed. "Don't worry about it."

Gracie returns to the call.

It was only a matter of time before Mycroft would get in touch. John hadn't bothered to inform him of Sherlock's plight, since the damned spy was probably privy to the information the minute Sherlock's name was entered into NHS records.

Grace stretches the phone cord as long as she can and holds out the receiver to signal to John that he's to take over. John chews down the last of his dismal tuna concoction and comes to the phone.

"Ah, John," Mycroft says, sounding polite but not delighted. "How is the situation progressing?"

"I sort of assumed that was what you were discussing," John replies. 

"I assume you trust this---" John can hear the rustling of papers at the other end of the line, "Dr Evangeline Harris."

John is confused for a second until he realizes who Mycroft refers to. "Gracie? Yes, I do."

"She is quite... Colloquial."

John smirks. "She was always sort of one of the guys." 

"And your objectivity is not compromised due of your prior romantic involvement with her?"

"Jesus, Mycroft. I went out with her flatmate, not her. Check your sources." 

Gracie shakes her head, smiling.

"Considering your reputation, it's not unreasonable to ask."

"You don't ever think it's a bit creepy, this thing you do? This cloak and dagger routine?"

"I refuse to apologize for something that has saved my brother's life on numerous occasions," is Mycroft's slightly indignant reply.

"She's my friend, and she's very, very good at what she does. Happy?"

"I'd hate to repeat my original question. How is he?"

"We finally managed to control his blood pressure and his heart rate, but his kidneys might need a hand. He tried to go into pulmonary oedema but has now managed to wean himself off from needing respiratory support for now. Coagulation panel doesn't look very good, so we're having a temporary dialysis cannule put in now, in case he needs it, before putting one in gets risky." John swallows.

It's a different thing, discussing bits and pieces of it with Gracie, sticking to his physician role, but saying it out loud like this to Mycroft seems to hammer home what sort of a tightrope they're really balancing on.

"You sound worried. Should I come over?" Mycroft enquires and John curses. He had tried to sound reassuring but apparently nothing gets past the Holmes brothers.

John has no idea how Mycroft thinks his presence might be of benefit. "Stay put. I promise to contact you if anything new happens."

"Should I inform the parental unit?"

John takes a moment, trying to remember what he's been told and read. "No, not at this point. Fatalities and long-term damage are rare in these cases, at least according to what Dr Harris knows."

Gracie shoots him a dirty look.

"You'll make sure he's as comfortable as possible?" Mycroft asks, sounding rather worried, "I will do what I can to help if he needs sorting out later if opiates are required and pose a problem afterwards."

"He was worried about that himself, you know. Couldn't be avoided, though."

"Understandable. Give my regards to Dr Harris. If she needs a hand in organizing childcare while seeing to Sherlock, you'll only need to say the word. I will make sure the holiday time she is using will be reimbursed."

"I think we're covered, thanks," John says, but mouths 'are your kids sorted' to Gracie anyway. She nods. 

Mycroft bids his farewell. John slumps down onto the nearest uncomfortable office chair and receives a steaming mug of tea from Gracie.

"He doesn't trust us?" she asks.

"He does, but just wants to make sure there isn't anything he could do."

"Anyway, what did you mean when you said I shouldn't worry if he can read out records? Is he a hacker of some kind? Or an NHS auditor?"

John shakes his head. "He's, well, Sherlock would tell him he's pretty much the British government. You don't want to know."

Gracie sips her mug, looking resolute. "I think Sherlock will be quite alright, John, really."

John nods. He knows that's the strongest guarantee any doctor is ever willing to give in such a situation. Medicine is never a game of certainty.

 

 

When they return to the ICU, they come across the intensivist in charge of renal replacement therapy in the hallway. He has just finished the temporary dialysis cannulation and has been looking for them because there's been a downturn - signs of what could be central nervous system involvement are now evident. Sherlock has, apparently, been increasingly disoriented and confused during the procedure.

John listens to the man, trying to resist the desire to abandon the conversation and hurry to Sherlock's room. Gracie grabs his arm, as though reading his mind. 

When the intensivist is finished giving his report, Gracie still won't let him rush in. "John," she starts, "You can step down at any time and just be there for him. I'll handle the rest."

"I know, it's just---". He takes a step back and faces the nurses' station because he can't look at Gracie right now. He feels like he needs to punch something. He knew this was a possibility, like needing dialysis. Nothing to it, really. It would pass, John tells himself but can't seem to shake the feeling of unease. 

They enter the room, John trailing behind Gracie. There's a nurse sitting on the chair John has been occupying for much of the night. She seems to be keeping an eye on Sherlock, who's in the process of what looks as though he's arranging the wires connected to him, bunching them together.

The nurse stands up. "Dr Watson's here," he tells Sherlock, who doesn't seems to be listening. John and Gracie walk in and stand by the door as the nurse leaves.

There's a new infusor next to the bed, dosing a steady stream of dexmedetomidine, a newish thing that Gracie has briefed John about. It's supposed to work well as a sedative without a risk of depressing breathing. The intensivist had thought it prudent to initiate it, judging by Sherlock's behaviour.

"He might be too hyped up by all that adrenaline to manage to sleep within the normal dose range we use," Gracie had remarked to John, and added that the stuff always needed a bit of tweaking to find the right dose. 

"Sherlock?" John asks, but there's no reply. His friend looks completely occupied by the colour-coded wires he's fingering, clearly oblivious to their presence. It's as though he's retreated into his mind palace and all that's left is an automaton.

John strides back out to the hallway. He closes his eyes and leans his forehead onto a wall, trying to will his feelings into submission. 'It's just sentiment', Sherlock would tell him, 'It's useless, just focus on the data'.

He can't. 

Why is this his life? This constant vigilance, trying to keep Sherlock alive despite whatever serial killer, toxic mold or mob assassin was after his life this week. He signed up for the danger and the excitement, not the aftermath. Not this. 

Gracie appears in the doorway, brows raised.

"What I really don't get is why," John comments sternly as they return to the room, arms crossed as he forces himself to watch Sherlock fiddle with the wires, arranging the same ones into compulsively neat rows on his blanket. They keep bouncing off no matter how carefully Sherlock positions them but it doesn't discourage the man, he merely repeats the same thing.

"Why what?" Gracie asks, running her finger along the lab result strip they'd been given by the intensivist.

"Why would anyone have these bloody things at their house? Why is it even allowed? Dangerous animals in suburbs just because some nerd gets a hard-on from having them?"

John realizes that his statement applies to Gracie as well, but only after he's finished saying it, and right now he's frankly too tired and too worried to care about anyone's feelings.

Gracie sticks the piece of paper into her coat. "Look, John, I know you're upset--"

John turns to face her. "We don't even have any guidelines to treat these things! He could he sodding dying for all we know--"

"M not," floats Sherlock's drowsy voice from the bed.

John crosses his arms. "What if a kid gets stung?"

"Spiders don't sting, they bite-" comes a suggestion from the direction of the bed and John looks slightly relieved. If Sherlock sees fit to correct him he's still somewhat anchored to reality.

Gracie's mouth quirks into a smile. "You must've seen a couple of Capnocytophaga sepsis patients. Still, you wouldn't suggest banning dogs because of that risk?" she reasons.

"Please don't ban dogs, John," floats Sherlock's drowsy voice from the bed again. He is now tracing the red graph of his pulse oximeter monitor with his finger.

John ignores him and sighs, locking eyes with Gracie "I... I'm sorry. Didn't mean to take it out on you. And to be fair, our victim didn't let these things out, it was the murderer. Sherlock could have just as easily been shot, stabbed and pushed down a staircase, considering what our work is usually like. I just don't get it personally. It's hard enough with his mold experiments taking over every surface in the kitchen - I could never sleep at night with some poisonous critter in the house."

Gracie doesn't look offended.

Sherlock is suddenly raising the hems of his backless hospital gown, frowning.

"What are you doing?" John asks.

"I've been stabbed---"

John is taken aback, until he remembers what he's just said. He hurries to Sherlock's side and pulls his gown back down. "No, Sherlock. God, that was just an example, I didn't mean it. You've not been stabbed, shot or pushed down the stairs. You're fine."

Sherlock's eyes meet John's. They look glassy and unfocused. "Where am I?"

John now notices the sizable new central line that the intensivist has put in. It looks like a Y-shaped drinking straw sticking out of Sherlock's pale neck.

This really isn't how their Saturday night was supposed to be. 

He pries his friend's fingers from tugging at his worn-looking gown. "Just go to sleep," he tells Sherlock and miraculously, the man obeys, turning to his side and closing his eyes. 

John looks at Gracie sternly. "You told me he'll be fine. I'm holding you to that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for some vocabulary again. I'm beginning to sound like an educational leaflet, really X-)
> 
> BiPAP = Bilevel Positive Airway Pressure is a form of respiratory support therapy usually performed with a face mask. It helps keep small airways from collapsing during exhalation and takes some of the workload off the patient's own respiratory muscles by giving an extra pressure push during inhalation. It's often not very comfortable and takes some getting used to, but it really helps, often quite quickly. It can also spare many patients from having to be put to sleep, intubated and hooked to a respirator.
> 
> Pink froth is a classic sign of pulmonary oedema, which means excessive fluid accumulation in the lungs. A common reason for that is that the heart doesn't have enough strenght to pump forward stuff and there's a bit of a traffic jam in the lung vasculature because of that. The blood pressure inside the lungs rises and more stuff starts to seep through the vessel walls into the airspaces. It can also be neurogenic, meaning that it's not due to heart dysfunction but some sort of a disease state of the nervous system which has led to disrupted fluid regulation. Respiratory support techniques such of CPAP and BiPAP help push the liquid stuff back and to keep it where it belongs.
> 
> Dexmedetomidine = A newish infusable sedative used a lot in ICUs. It's an alpha 2 -receptor agonist that does not endanger breathing or lower the blood pressure significantly. In America it's known by its commercial name Precedex, in Europe it goes by Dexdor. Not sure how widespread its use is in the UK yet. With it you don't need to put patients into deep sleep for it to work - in ICUs many patients treated with this drug can be aroused by for instance tapping on their forehead. Apart from being a sedative it has anxiolytic (=anxiety-lessening), analgesic (painkilling) and sympatholytic (= it counters the effects of the sympathic autonomic nervous system, which calms down the body's 'fight or flight' -like stress response) properties. 
> 
> Echocardiography = The art of assessing the heart with ultrasound. There's a wealth of information to be gained through this this, without practically any risks to the patient since ultrasound is quite harmless. In this scenario it would be used to assess the effectiveness of the blood-pumping function of the heart among other things.
> 
> On cannulation and coagulation parameters: if a patient's blood clotting system is impaired for some reason it's not fun to make holes in their blood vessels, which is what cannulation sort of always requires. For dialysis to work a quite a large central venous cannule is needed, and it would be prudent to put one in early if there might be a need for it soon and the coagulation or platelet values are worsening.


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning arrives with a bleak, rainy scent in the air as Gracie Harris returns into the hospital. Gracie has spent the night at home after getting a promise from John that he'd call her in if anything of note happens. When she returns to the hospital, she hears that John has refused the cot the nurses have offered to arrange to be brought into the room. He's been occupying the chair instead, all night.

"You can't run yourself to the ground, John, really," Gracie comments quietly after letting herself into the private room. 

"I'm fine. I've eaten, I'm fine." John stretches and glances out of the window where traffic on the normally busy Giltspur Street is nearly non-existant. It's Sunday morning after all.

Grace smiles. "Doctors make the worst patients," she reminds John pointedly.

John presses his palms onto his closed eyelids. "That only means you've never had a consulting detective as a patient."

"How are we doing?"

John points at the laptop in the corner. "Creatinine levels are stabilizing. Don't think we'll need the dialysis. Liver enzymes still through the roof but so far no sign of actual acute liver dysfunction. How long do these things usually take?"

"Three to four days, I'd say. How long did the more severe cases in Afghanistan take?"

"Most of them were taken out of my hands pretty early on, since the patients clearly needed a tertiary centre with ICU capabilities. I can't really comment on what went on after the first 24 hours. I assume this thing doesn't really compare to a deathstalker sting?"

"Not really, no. Which is a good thing," she reminds John, fiddling with a pen in her pocket. "Has he been up?"

"No. They upped the dose on the dex---whatever."

"--Medetomidine. Monstrosity of a name, I know. You probably didn't use it abroad."

"Hadn't even heard of it, then."

"Chest films?"

John looks thoughtful. "Far as I could tell, a bit better. He's still been coughing a lot. Are you sure the dex won't interfere with clearing his lungs?"

"It shouldn't." Gracie digs out a stethoscope and listens. Sherlock doesn't stir although he gasps a bit when the cold metal hits the feverish skin on his back. 

John nods. He feels terrible having these detached academic discussions in front of Sherlock, when the man himself can't really participate at present.

"How do we know how he's doing if we keep him sedated like this?" John asks. He's starting to realize how much he misses Sherlock. He's right there, but not entirely. Not the bits that matter.

"You know him better than I do, and you told me some stuff that basically says we better err on the side of caution here. Do you think he'd consent to resting quietly if we skimped on the meds?"

John shakes his head, slightly embarrassed when he realizes that he is being impatient and not entirely objective. Maybe he should step down as suggested. But what then? He would have nothing to occupy himself with, and as Gracie had put it, probably still wouldn't be able to keep himself from trying to take part in planning the treatment.

"We'll do a sedation break late afternoon if there's no shift for the worse in the liver parameters. It's possible for the toxin might have had enough time to start clearing from his brain by then. It'll be early days, but it's possible. Acceptable?"

John nods.

"Now go home, get a bloody shower and a shave and come back then. I will call you if anything happens." 

 

 

 

John has to admit he feels better after three hours or uninterrupted sleep in his own bed. He had also made himself useful by putting Sherlock's dressing gown in the wash. 

Not much else he can do, now, is there? Just let this thing run its course. 

Still, it felt hard being this helpless. He was supposed to be able to handle these things, to fix them, to do his part as Dr Watson. He'd never been one of those surgeons who felt like a fish out of water when a patient's problem couln't be fixed with an operation. He had always thought he'd been equally comfortable with the watchful waiting of more conservative medicine. That was part of why he thrived working for the armed forces, since not everything they came across in Afghanistan was related to trauma or other ailments requiring surgical intervention. 

If it were just Sherlock's body that was temporarily wrecked, that would have been tolerable. But to see this thing take over the very part that made Sherlock, well, Sherlock, tore at John's heart because he knew how much the man himself would have hated this, being seen like this.

John was now the one with the mental faculties to solve the problem at hand together with Gracie Harris, so he just needed to weather this.

With a rekindled resolution fortified by food, rest and some time to himself, John strides along the corridor towards the already familiar patient room.

His ears pick up a faint, eerie sound. Someone singing. 

There's something familiar in the tone. He's never actually heard Sherlock sing anything, but this is close enough to his usual voice that John decides there are no other reasonable options as to where the sound is coming from. He pauses in the hallway in front of the right door to listen.

Something in the sound makes the hairs on his arms stand up. It's mournful, almost a wail but there's also a manic quality to it. It's hard to make out any individual words through the heavily soundproofed door of the patient room.

He opens the door and freezes on the spot.

Sherlock is alone in the room - which wasn't supposed to happen, really, at least in John's opinion, someone was supposed to be keeping and eye on him. Sherlock is sitting up in bed, alternating between humming and singing, and running the fingernails along his left arm, leaving bleeding welts in the still very swollen skin. 

What he's singing contains the words 'slit' and 'throat' and 'blood' along with a dissonant melody. The whole scene is nothing short of terrifying.

John drops the bag of clothes he's carrying without even realizing. He grabs the the call button and presses it so hard the plastic groans in his grip. Then he sits down behind Sherlock on the bed and circles both arms around him, grabbing Sherlock's wrists and stopping him from causing any further harm to himself. It's only then he dares to let out the breath he's been holding. 

His hands are shaking while he holds Sherlock. 

Sherlock, is still humming quietly but luckily he's stopped with the murder ballad part of it. He doesn't fight John, but doesn't seen to relax either. 

John closes his eyes and leans his cheek on Sherlock's bare shoulder - the gown's neck string has come loose, revealing the pale skin of his shoulders and right clavicle. "I'm sorry," he whispers. There's no answer.

He doesn't know what to do, really. Let go and see if there's a more lucid moment?

John can't think of any good reasons to let go. He feels more useful now that he's felt at any moment during the past twenty hours.

"Should've been me, really. I can afford to lose more brain cells. You're always telling me I never use mine anyway," he whispers.

The door bangs open and Gracie hurries in with a nurse, alerted by the call button. "John? What---" She takes in the scene, frowning.

The nurse pries Sherlock's left arm from John's grip and starts inspecting the damage. Grace determinedly strides to the other side of the bed, pushes something into Sherlock's IV and John gets startled when the man goes limp in his grip. 

Gracie and the nurse help John arrange the now sleeping Sherlock back onto the bed and the nurse begins dressing the bleeding welts.

"Sit down, John, you look like you've seen a ghost," Gracie says.

John obeys and leans his back against the wall. His hands refuse to stop shaking. "God, a little warning next time? You should've bloody seen him! Why did you leave him alone?"

The nurse looks embarrassed. "I needed to get a new bag of Ringer's. I was only gone a couple of minutes."

John glances at Sherlock. "You should've seen him. I've no idea what he was singing, but---"

Gracie smiles apologetically. "That throat-slitting thing? I know it, he's been at it for two hours after he heard it on the radio the cleaners had on. Excellent memory he's got despite what we've been dosing him with. Picked up a lot of the lyrics with just one hearing."

John suddenly laughs. It sounds a bit hollow and a bit manic, really. "Fucking hell. I thought he'd gone completely round the bend."

The nurse leaves with his wound-dressing supplies.

"Must be the familiar vocabulary that he picked up on," Gracie suggests, "You two solve crimes, right?"

"It was--- I don't want to think about it." His mind keeps flashing back to what he'd seen. Suddenly he can't stop his eyes from watering. He frantically wipes away the tears he has no control over.

"Jesus, John." Gracie kneels down next to him. "He's fine now, nothing to it. I've never seen this phase turn permanent with any kinds of toxin cases. He's just sick and not himself."

She curls her arm around John's shoulders in an attempt to console him but he shrugs it off and stands up. He then walks out of the room.

 

 

 

John doesn't stop walking until he can't even recognize the part of the hospital he finds himself when he finally manages to shake himself out of his reverie.

He's at the pathology department. The morgue, to be precise.

No one is working, the lights are off. John finds a metal chair by an autopsy table and sits down in the dark. 

The darkness is strangely calming. Makes it possible to imagine that he's not at all in a hospital. He could be anywhere, really. In his own bedroom at home. In the dark moors around Baskerville - not a calming thought, really, but somehow less terrifying than his current reality.

He would swap this for a murderous supernatural dog any day. 

He turns in his chair and his elbow accidentally swipes an instrument off the autopsy table. It clatters to the floor loudly. When John bends down to pick it up a light flicks on in the adjacent office.

Sharp footsteps approach and the door swings opens. "Alright, get out. Chris, if it's you, I told you once already, it's been illegal since 2003 and even if it weren't, it's grossly indecent. If it's anybody else, I'm about to pepperspray you on the count of three!" The voice wavers a bit, but there's no doubt about - it's owner is dead serious.

And familiar. John stands up, hands raised in submission. "Molly?"

Footsteps approach again, this time slightly hesitant. "Who is this?" Molly asks, sounding confused. She switches on the main lights of the autopsy hall. "John?"

"Yeah." John puts the instrument - a saw blade of some kind - back onto the table. "Sorry if I scared you."

"Oh never mind that," Molly says and places her can of pepper spray next to the saw blade. "Is there a case? I've not received any new remains, I was just about to leave for home."

"No, no case," John admits.

"Well was there something else you needed? For Sherlock? I gave him those thymuses, sorry, thymi like he corrected me, three days ago?"

John doesn't know how to answer. He sits back down.

Molly's expression is a mixture of worry and confusion. "John? Are you alright? Where's Sherlock? Why are you sitting here in the dark? You weren't waiting for me at all, were you?"

Suddenly everything feels so heavy and so tiring. "I have no idea what I'm even doing here," John admits.

Molly purses her lips and then goes to fetch a wooden chair which she drags next to John's. She takes a seat. "I think you need to start from the beginning? Are you alright?"

"I need to be."

"You don't look it."

Why is this so hard?

"Sherlock's-- Injured. Sort of."

"How do you get 'sort of' injured? Sounds a bit like 'sort of dead'."

"He got stung by a scorpion. At first he thought it was a harmless one, but turns out that Mr Know-It-All wasn't as up to speed on his scorpion taxonomy as he thought. Now he's up there in the ICU," John points to the ceiling since they're in the basement, "It's a bit touch-and-go at the moment."

"That's-- I'm sorry, John," Molly says quietly, "I had no idea."

John suddenly stands up. "I need to go. I need to be there," he says but there's no resolve in his voice.

"If you need to be with him, why are you down here, then?"

Bless Molly for asking the important questions. 

Molly's palm gently lands on his bicep. "Sounds like you might need a break. You're exhausted."

John snorts. "The last time I took a break, when I came back he was tearing himself to pieces and---" He doesn't want to describe the scene further. Why does it bother him so much?

Molly grabs his wrist and drags him to her office. The sofa in there looks comfortable and John indulges.

Molly sits down on the swiveling office chair she's got placed in front of her desk and leans on her knees. The room smells of mothballs and dust. "Look, John, there's a whole hospital full of people like us to take care of him. You won't be any use of him like this. It's okay, you know, if it upsets you."

"I'm supposed to see that nothing happens to him."

Molly's smile is bitter. "That's the thing. You're not. He managed before you came. You need to know that. It's so much better for him, now, but he did manage. Getting off drugs, he did that himself. Not Mycroft or Lestrade. He walked into A&E and told anyone who would listen that he needed to stop. And get help. Because there were things he wanted to do."

John looks slightly alarmed. "Why are you telling me this?"

"He's sick so you're scared of what will happen to him. I think you're also afraid of what will happen to you."

John is taken aback. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Is this the first time you've seen him be... A little out of it? That's what I gathered, really, from what you said or didn't say. He isn't himself?"

John nods, grateful for not having to elaborate. No wonder Sherlock seems to appreciate Molly, despite how badly he treats her. She's cleverer than what people give her credit for.

"You told me once that he saved you, that whatever your life was after you came home was a whole lot of nothing until he came along. He made you excited about things again. You're afraid you'll go back to where you started if you lose him. And watching him lose himself as well would be twice as bad, because we all know it's his life's mission to be smartest, the cleverest in the room. That's how he got you hooked. That's how he gets everyone hooked, really. Maybe you need him a little, too. Sometimes he's the strong one and I know how weird it is when he suddenly isn't."

John nods. He still feels hollow, as though he's let down Sherlock somehow. 

"I was on duty that night when he walked into A&E and wanted to get clean. That's how we met. He begged me for something to do. I let him help out a little with my work down here," Molly says.

John leans back on the sofa. "I can't be his doctor right now."

"And no one's asking you to. Does he have a decent consultant at the moment? One you can trust?"

"Mycroft asked me the same. Yes, he does. I sort of picked her."

"Good. You just need to be John, then."

John nods. He's too tired to know how to be even that at the moment, to be honest. 

"It's allowed to be hard, and scary, and terrible and not okay," Molly tells him, "I know what it's like. I've lost people and buried people and they're not always the same thing. And don't you dare say that because someone's a doctor it should be easier for them. It's not, it's worse. You have the regular kind of anxiety, then there's the performance anxiety of needing to be the best you could ever be professionally because it's someone you know. The people who know you outside of work can see past your professional role, see past the bullshit things we say when we don't want patients to know how bad it is. Then on top of that there's all the bad stuff you know could happen, you don't have 'ignorance is bliss' as an option. It's worse, way worse."

Molly goes to rummage around a big wooden box on the floor. She gets out an afghan which she places on the sofa next to John. "You can stay as long as you like. Get a decent night's sleep. You can go see him in the morning. If he's at the ICU it's unlikely he will remember whether you were here tonight or not since they're bound to be sedating him. I'll come back sometime before my shift starts tomorrow morning and we can go see him together. Deal?"

John looks up at her, grateful. "Deal."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much jargon to explain this time. But feel free to ask if there's anything I haven't covered!
> 
> Creatinine = A waste substance produced in muscles. The amount of it that stay in blood (=hasn't been cleared by the kidneys) correlates with how well the kidneys are working.
> 
> I want to thank the lovely readers who have been popping into the comments section to discuss both the scientific and the emotional sides of this story. You are all my muses and I'm having such a great time talking about this stuff! The whole story's now done, and I'm in the process of editing the last chapters.
> 
> The song Sherlock is singing is "I Believed In You" by Skunk Anansie.
> 
> This story doesn't have as extensive a writing soundtrack as I usually use for my longer pieces, but the last scene in this chapter was definitely inspired by Placebo's "Come Undone" playing in the background.


	5. Chapter 5

John surprises himself by managing to sleep for several hours. He wakes up a little before six in the morning, tangled up in the afghan. He rummages around his pocket to find his phone and curses when it's not there. He must've left it upstairs. 

He realizes that Gracie hasn't had a means with which to reach him during the night.

John leaps off the sofa and grabs the old cord phone on the desk. As he's about to call the switchboard, Molly walks in and places her handbag on the floor. 

"Morning," she says, smiling. "I thought you might've already gone upstairs."

John covers the mouthpiece with his hand while listening to the dial tone. "I forgot my bloody phone upstairs, they might've been calling me all night--"

Molly takes the receiver from him and carefully puts it back. "It's right there, John," she remarks, pointing towards the sofa backrest. Molly reaches out to brag it and gives it to him. "I actually called the ICU last night when I was walking home to let them know where you were. You were so upset I figured you might not realize they had no idea where you might've gone."

John leans on the table, phone in his hand. "Fucking hell. I'm a mess, aren't I. I'm no use to him like this."

Molly straightens her skirt. "Like I said, you're not supposed to be of use. You're supposed to just be. I read up on this, you know. It's like with viral encephalitis, the prognosis is excellent. It's sort of similar to aseptic meningitis, really."

"I know, Molly," John groans. He has the facts. All he needs is for his emotions to catch up with them. "It's just that sometimes, just for a second, he makes me wonder what he's capable of. He says he solves crimes to keep off drugs. Yesterday was a bit like I've imagined he'd be if he totally lost it, in a way. We all have a dark side but God, I hate myself of even thinking about it. That there's even the smallest risk of him letting go of the humanity he's always telling me he despises."

Molly looks thoughtful while taking off her coat. "Are you afraid he might be what he claims to be, a sociopath?"

John sits down on the sofa and pockets his phone. "No, but he's imperfect like everyone else. He has these moods, and he's unpredictable--"

"And he once rescued a stray tortoise from a dumpster like a true evil sociopath."

"And begged me not to ban dogs."

Molly laughs. "I bet that's not even the weirdest conversation you've ever had with him. No one would call you a sociopath, even though you turned assassin less than a day after you met him," she reminds him. Molly was one of the few people John had shared the unsanitized story of the serial killer cabbie with. 

"He brings that out in me, I guess," John admits.

"You're not alone, you know. I steal body parts and give them to such a self-proclaimed sociopath. Not exactly textbook sane or decent either."

John shakes his head, laughing. "Look at us."

Molly slips on a white lab coat. "Let's go see the madman then," she says, sounding determined.

John's nerves are still shot, but trailing after Molly towards the elevators, he feels just a little bit lighter.

 

 

 

Gracie Harris is standing by the ward sister's office, typing on a laptop attached to the wall. She quickly glances at John when they arrive and holds out a finger. "Just let me finish this first." A couple of sharp key presses later she signs out of the patient records and turns to face John and Molly.

"This is Dr Hooper from pathology," John introduces courteously and Molly and Gracie shake hands.

"Nice to meet you but John, we hardly need a path consult?"

"She's a friend," John explains.

"Oh. You want a brew before we go in?"

John wonders if there's anything awaiting in the room that would require a fortifying cup of tea but he figures the usually very straightforward Gracie would have contacted him if there was news.

Molly shakes her head. "I've had breakfast. I can go get a cuppa for John, though. You two go on ahead."

"It's room seven," John shouts after Molly and she waves a hand to signal she's heard him. John turns back to face Gracie. "Tell me."

Gracie looks slightly mischievous. "I think you'll be pleasantly surprised, really."

 

 

 

Gracie excuses herself on behalf of paperwork and Molly seems to be having a lenghty disagreement with the vending machine so John goes in to Sherlock's room alone. He presses down the door handle and takes a deep breath as he pulls the door open.

He's not sure what to expect, really.

Sherlock is on his feet, a nurse assisting him in walking towards the bed. Their backs are towards John but Sherlock turns his head when he hears the door. "John," he says, sounding delighted. He extricates himself from the nurse's grip on his arm and leans his healthy hand on the chair at the end of the bed. "I'd never have thought being allowed to get up and brush my teeth would feel so glorious."

John has cleared the distance between them without even realizing. His hand flies up to Sherlock's cheek. "It's--- It's you?"

Sherlock looks indignant. "What do you mean, 'it's me'? Is your eyesight suddenly impaired?"

John lets his hand fall and closes his eyes for a moment. 

"John?" Sherlock now sounds slightly alarmed, and swats away the nurse's hand as she tries to get him to return to bed.

"You've been--" John tries to find a term that would be least likely to embarrass Sherlock.

"Delirious? Yes, I've been told." Sherlock slowly lowers himself onto the bed, flips the duvet and slides in. "I'm sure you will spare no mortifying details in your blog posts."

John swallows and looks at Sherlock with a serious expression. "I'd never, ever do that to you. Ever." He sits down at the end of the bed and Sherlock bends his knees underneath the covers to make some more room for John. 

"Dr Harris refused to cease the oxycodone infusion, even though I assured her paracetamol would suffice," Sherlock complains.

"You can't have that. Or anything else non-opiate. Your liver's not recovered and it was a bit touch-and-go with the kidneys as well."

"Is that why I have this ghastly contraption?" He scratches at the edge of the adhesive dressing covering his dialysis cannule. "Will I need dialysis?"

John shakes his head. "Probably not. We had it put in just in case."

"I don't like it."

"Well it's not there for your amusement. Stop fiddling with it." John looks thoughtful for a moment. "I think we could try and switch you to a long-acting opioid tablet instead of the infusion."

The door opens and Molly walks in with two disposable cups filled to the brim with Earl Grey. "They had better stuff at the canteen. The vending machine wouldn't work. Hi Sherlock," he says and passes John the other mug. 

Sherlock moves his scrutinizing gaze from John to Molly, clearly trying to deduce why she has arrived. His expression turns neutral after a moment. "You've slept in her office. Why?"

John glances at Molly, who looks deadpan. "John came down to borrow my charger cord, we talked a bit and he was so exhausted I offered him the couch. It's got to be more comfortable than the plastic sofas in the doctors' lounge."

'Thank you', John mouths to Molly with his face turned towards her and the door, hoping Sherlock won't pick up on it.

Molly sips her tea. "How are you? John told me bits and pieces but not everything."

Sherlock runs a hand through his unruly, matted curls. "Ugh. In need of a shower and my own clothes."

John positively beams.

Molly still looks like she's expecting a proper answer. 

"Arm's better. Not as swollen. Vitals are slowly approaching normal, Dr Harris tells me. Liver still recovering."

John fiddles a bit of duvet between his fingers. "How much do you remember?"

Sherlock's gaze narrows for a second. "I recall arriving at A&E, not much after that. I assume you drugged me?" He asks John, sounding slightly accusing.

"Sedated you", John corrects. 

"Effectively the same thing, never mind the semantics."

"You never agree to rest when a doctor tells you to. You would've run yourself to the ground."

"I dare you to be keep still with that level of pain."

"Not what I meant."

"When will they release you?" Molly asks.

"Dr Harris has stubbornly announced she won't let me go home until she's certain my kidneys won't give in and refuses to plan a schedule."

Molly quietly dunks her now empty cup into a rubbish bin and makes her exit after wishing Sherlock a hasty recovery.

Sherlock turns to John, looking hopeful. "I was hoping you might assuade Dr Harris--"

John pats Sherlock's knee through the duvet. "No."

Sherlock looks taken aback. "What do you mean, 'no'?"

"It's a well-known word of the English language. No, I won't take on your care in order to sneak you out of here prematurely so you can overexert yourself at home. I will, however, bring you your laptop, play Cluedo with you until kingdom come, read the whole bloody phonebook to you out loud if need be but you need to be here and I need to not take all responsibility for you right now."

Sherlock opens his mouth but John isn't finished. "I was worried. No, scratch that, I was pretty fucking scared for you. It wasn't your fault, not this time, but often it is, and it's hateful, it really is how it's down to me all the time to sort you out when you nearly get yourself killed. Because it kills me to have to watch something like that."

Sherlock coughs. "I don't know how to respond to that."

John stands up. "I don't even know what I'm trying to say."

"This is not my area, John. However lacking your explanation will be it'll still probably be better than any deduction I could make." 

"I worry, okay? And it's hard. I can't shut it off like you."

"You don't think I worry?"

"You're as reckless as they get. What would you ever worry about?"

Sherlock blinks. "You. You think I can't see what you've done for the past two days? It's plain as day. God, you've had two years to observe my methods and still, nothing. It's shameful, the way in which you use my illness as an excuse to skimp on personal hygiene. And you get moody and snap at me when you don't eat and sleep properly."

"Sherlock, I'm really not in the mood to be insulted."

"That was merely an observation." Sherlock looks indignant.

John's scowl melts into a smile. 

"What?" Sherlock asks.

"I just realized I actually sort of missed being insulted by you."

Sherlock stares at him, confused.

"Oh you wonderful idiot, come here," John says, and gives Sherlock's shoulders a squeeze.

 

 

 

Around noon Sherlock is allowed some food, which he discontently picks at.

Gracie has promised to keep an eye on him so John agrees to a short impromptu work shift at the clinic he has been locuming in. When he returns to the hospital after having a shower and a shave at home, the ICU hallway is empty and quiet save for the sound of the nine o'clock news playing on the TV in the visitors' corner.

Gracie has texted him when she left the hospital and hour earlier, announcing there's nothing new to report.

There's a copy of Daily Mail on the nurses' station counter which John grabs as he walks past. He was supposed to bring in a paperback but he forgot it on the kitchen table.

When he walks into Sherlock's room the sound of the evening news echoes there as well. Someone has wheeled in a television set.

Sherlock is leaning back in his bed, a thick pile of pillows behind his back. He's scowling and clicking the buttons on the remote. "The batteries are almost dead," he announces.

"Welcome to the NHS," John replies and slides his bag under the table.

"You could've gone home," Sherlock says.

John taps the up arrow button on the tv set until it arrives at a channel with a game show. He glances at Sherlock, who nods.

"I wanted to see how you were doing," John replies.

They settle into a comfortable silence, John reading the paper and Sherlock watching the show. It takes awhile for John to realize that Sherlock's usually rampant TV commentary is absent.

"Bored?" John asks without raising his eyes from the newspaper.

"Isn't it self-evident?" Sherlock asks.

Usually Sherlock's boredom is a lot louder.

John digs out a small brown paper bag from his bag under the table. "You can busy yourself with this, then." He gives the bag to Sherlock.

Sherlock inspects it first without opening it. He then peers into it for a moment. Then he upends it and an orange and an apple fall onto his blanket. He frowns.

John glances at him. "What´s wrong? You're looking at those like they might explode. It's just some fruit."

"Why?" Sherlock asks.

"What do you mean, 'why'? There's no murder mystery here, it's not a clue."

"It's customary to gift fruit to people who are ill?" Sherlock suggests.

"Or maybe it's my pathetic attempt at getting you to ingest some vitamins. Why do you make everything so bloody complicated?" John shakes his head, amused.

Sherlock puts the fruit back into the bag and places it on the bedside table. "I don't feel like eating."

John leafs through the last pages of the newspaper and then puts it in the bin in the corner of the room. He takes a look at the monitors and Sherlock, who is focusing on the television again. "You've gone a bit pale. Sure you don't want anything to eat of drink? You hardly had any lunch."

"And the little I had didn't agree with me." 

"Your pillow tower is collapsing. Sit up, I'll fix it," John suggests.

Sherlock leans forward and gasps. Then he slows his movements and turn slightly to his right side to make some space between his back and the pillows. John rearranges them and then taps gently on Sherlock's duvet-covered stomach.

Sherlock jolts and slaps his hand away, looking at John with scorn. "What--"

Anger flares in John's eyes. "You're in pain."

Sherlock doesn't reply.

John grabs the remote and luckily this time the batteries discharge enough energy to shut the thing off when he presses the power button. 

"What?" Sherlock asks indignantly.

"You're supposed to tell me these things. Is it new? How bad is it? Is this the reason you haven't been eating?"

Sherlock wraps the duvet tighter around himself. "I told you lunch didn't agree with me."

John exhales, trying to force annoyance out of his tone. "Ignoring it won't fix it. Will you let me have a look?"

Sherlock doesn't reply. 

John walks around the bed to dig up the latest lab results on the computer. Everything looks steady, although the liver enzyme levels are still high.

When he approaches the bed again Sherlock turns on the TV again. He then holds his duvet away from his torso, clearly trying to look disinterested as he fixes his gaze on the TV programme.

John grabs the duvet and peels the sheet and Sherlock's gown away from his midriff. "You've been surprisingly sensible during this whole thing so far. Why are we back to this again, this 'it's nothing' routine? Lean back."

"I thought you weren't going to be my doctor for the time being," Sherlock reminds him. Trust him to remember every damned word of every conversation.

"I'm always your doctor, whether I want to or not. You must've known what I meant earlier, since you're not exactly daft."

Sherlock swallows and grits his teeth when John runs his hands along his stomach and then gently pushes down. This elicits a strangled noise from Sherlock, who grabs the bed railing with his not sore hand and squeezes it, his knuckles ghostly white as John finishes his examination. 

"You have cold hands," Sherlock scolds him.

"Sorry," John says with a hint of a smile. "Pancreatitis, most likely," he adds as he pulls the gown back onto Sherlock's stomach. "We knew this might happen. Explains why eating would have made it worse or brought on the symptoms. You could've said something earlier. Now we need an abdominal CT and I have to call Gracie at home even though it's pretty goddamned late." 

Sherlock looks out the window. "I hoped it would resolve on its on. I want to get home."

John grabs the charting sheet from the window ledge and inspects the temperature logs. "I know you do, but it doesn't work that way. Why wouldn't you say anything? It's hard to deduce things without proper information, you know", John reminds him and Sherlock purses his lips.

John puts the chart away on leans onto the window ledge while he raising the infusion rate of the oxycodone. He then settles back into his chair. He notices that Sherlock had carefully arranged his catheter bag underneath the bed so that it's not visible unless one would know how to look for it. It's like he has tried to conceal that he needs one.

"What is this thing with you and hospitals, and being sick and all, anyway?" John asks, trying to sound casual. 

Sherlock looks up, slightly alarmed. "What do you mean?" he enquires.

"You hate people seeing you sick."

"Who doesn't? It's embarrassing."

"You often hide symptoms to avoid ending up in A&E even though you must realize they could be signs of something serious."

"I told you about them this time, didn't I?" Sherlock reminds him defensively.

"Only because you realized this was dead serious and you couldn't handle it by locking yourself into your room like that time you had a collapsed lung. I still haven't forgiven you for that time, you know."

"Your capacity for petty grudges is astounding."

"You don't trust doctors."

"I trust you. Only you."

John's gaze is a challenge. "Why? Why me and not, say, Dr Harris, who has proven herself perfectly competent? Why do you hate this so much? Bad memories?"

Sherlock scoffs. "Who the hell would even have fond memories of hospitals?"

"You're deflecting." John crosses his arms. "Humour me this once and deduce yourself for a change."

"It's unethical to bother people like this when they're in pain."

John smiles. "This is a good distraction. I just upped your oxycodone, it'll take a few minutes to kick in."

"Weren't you supposed to call Dr Harris?" Sherlock remarks icily.

John rolls his eyes, digs out his phone and disappears into the hallway to make the call.


	6. Chapter 6

John had originally considered going home later that evening but considering all the new developments he decides to stay in the hospital, sleeping in the doctors' lounge. He's a little less worried after discussing things over the phone with Gracie she had referenced some articles to him which had basically stated that pancreatic irritation was usually a self-resolving, late stage of the toxic effects. 

Self-resolving and not as ominous as he'd first though, but John still hated witnessing its effects. After a few hours of scoffing at game shows Sherlock shuts off the television, stating that it's impossible to focus with the pain. John ups his opiate infusion again despite Sherlock's protests. 

John wonders if his reluctance for proper pain relief has anything to do with what Sherlock apparently refuses to discuss with him - his obvious distrust of the health care system in general. It's as though this is one of the very rare things that can get past the man's defences - being sick and allowing to be cared for. 

It's understandable that for someone who values their independendence and self-sufficiency as much as Sherlock does, putting his well-being in the hands of others would be difficult. Sherlock seems to lose his confidence when his transport won't obey his commands.

Still, there must be something else at play that John can't quite put his finger on.

John pummels his lumpy pillow into submission as he tries to find a comfortable position on the old mattress the nurses have dragged into the ICU doctors' lounge for him. He then manages to drift off despite the fact that his bad shoulder is leaning onto the edge of a metal cabinet in the narrow makeshift bed he's in.

He wakes up to the sound of a text message. 

CAN'T SLEEP. SH

John curses.

HOW IS KEEPING ME UP AS WELL GOING TO FIX THAT? YOU NEED REST, he replies. It's ridiculous, really. Sherlock is just down the hallway with a legion of nurses at his disposal to bully if he needs something. John has stayed in to be at his disposal, too, but he's so tired he'd rather only get up if there was an actual need and not just because Sherlock was exhibiting his default mental state of boredom.

There's no reply to his message. John repeats his curse, flings his duvet on the floor and gets up. He shivers as he pulls on his jeans in the cool air of the lounge. He slips his feet into his shoes, not bothering to put on socks. He then pads to Sherlock's room, greeting one of the night orderlies in the process.

"Everything okay, John?" she enquires and when she receives a nod she continues on her way, carrying a heavy pile of fresh linens.

John yawns as he enters the private room. 

Sherlock is sitting on the bed on the side of it that's facing the window, legs dangling over the edge. He has his healthy arm draped across his stomach. He turns slightly when John enters, wincing slightly until he manages to arrange his expression into a more carefully controlled one.

John rubs his bare arms as he walks in, wishing he'd bothered to put on his jumper. He opens the cupboard, grabs a spare blanket and drapes it across his shoulder. "How's the pain level?" he asks.

"Tolerable," Sherlock replies.

"You rarely seem to sleep at home, either, you know," John remarks.

"It's different," Sherlock says.

"I know, can't sleep when there's a case on and all that nonsense. I don't think anyone gets a good night's sleep at a hospital, really."

"I did," Sherlock says quietly. 

John raises his brows. It's just two words but somehow they sound like so much more. Like a confession. 

John's afraid of saying the wrong thing, so he just sits down next to Sherlock on the bed and waits. 

"When you---" Sherlock starts and John can imagine see the gears turning in his head as the man struggles to select the right word, "--Stayed." 

John swallows. Sherlock isn't decidedly looking at him.

John knows exactly what Sherlock is referring to. The night so very recently when they shared this bed, at least for a few hours. 

A mixture of emotions floats through John's head. What Sherlock is saying ought to make him uncomfortable but it doesn't because somehow, it's not that complicated at all. It's rather simple, really. He ought to finally stop trying to shove their relationship into the traditional slots of flatmateship, friendship or whatever. 

Sod it what people might think or say, John thinks to himself. This is his friend, his best friend, telling him what he wants, what he needs. So simple it's ridiculous, really, that he even needs to analyze it in his head like this.

John exhales. He grabs the end of the duvet and raises it. Sherlock slides in. John circles the bed and lies down behind Sherlock. His hand hovers in the air for a minute until he gathers his courage and lets its settle onto the duvet-covered mound of Sherlock's hip.

"There's one condition to this arrangement, though," John breathes into the dark mop of curls that's tickling his nose.

"Mm?" Sherlock manages to sound suspicious even when monosyllabic.

"I get one question."

Sherlock huffs, which then makes him cough and gasp as it spikes the pain in his stomach.

"You're very annoying, you know," Sherlock tells him. 

"Pot, kettle," John chuckles. He pulls out the spare duvet he's still got on his shoulders and spreads it on his legs.

They stay silent for awhile, the rhythm of their breathing synchronizing. 

Sherlock closes his eyes. "One question," he says and John smiles.

"I asked if you had any particularly bad memories about places like these."

Sherlock turns his head slightly so that John can witness his eyeroll. "You asked me if I had bad memories, period, and I pointed out that it's unlikely anyone's memories of hospitals would be much different."

"Well there's people who go to hospitals to have babies, for instance."

"Not what I meant. And isn't childbirth supposed to be physically excruciating?" Sherlock points out.

John smiles. "You're deflecting, you know."

"Why can't you be this observant during cases? Why do you waste your deductive abilities on this sort of ridiculous pop psychology?"

John readjusts his blanket. "Fine. If you don't want to trust me with this, that's your prerogative, really. I was just curious as to why you'd trust me even though as a doctor I'm no different to the rest of my colleagues."

'John is my doctor'. That's what Sherlock had insisted on when they'd arrived. If such a responsibility was to be hoisted on John's shoulder, he would have at least liked to know why. 

"I'm convinced that you have my best interests at heart."

"You don't think that applies to how all patients are treated? Even if people in healthcare are just doing their jobs without any kind of Florence Nightingale syndrome, that still doesn't make them even remotely evil."

Sherlock sighs. "As always, John, you miss the point entirely." He turns onto his back under John's arm, which flops down to his stomach, eliciting another wince. "God, this is annoying," he huffs.

"Sorry," John says, "I didn't know you were going to rearrange yourself like that. Continue," he gently urges. He removes his arm and tucks it between them. Luckily the bed is wide enough for the two of them. Sherlock's bare arm is warm against his own.

"Mycroft had me sectioned once," Sherlock suddenly says, sounding both disapproving and detached.

John props himself up on his elbow. "When?"

"2002. Some time before I met Lestrade. Apparently he had convinced my parents that my habit of illicit substances was no longer under my control."

"Well, was it?" John asks.

Sherlock doesn't reply.

"Is that what you remember everytime I drag you to A&E?" 

"Not really. It's just bit and pieces from years and years ago, some memories that I can't even place on a proper timeline." Sherlock's gaze narrows. "There's always so much information," he explains, emphasizing the last word, "And before I developed ways to filter it, to arrange it, it was--- Overwhelming. Some places were worse than others."

John nods, even though he isn't quite grasping the gist of what Sherlock is saying. "Was this when you were a kid?"

"I've learned to tolerate things because they're necessary and declining treatment would be imbecillic, not to mention potentially life-threatening."

John tries to look encouraging, wanting Sherlock to elaborate.

"Mycroft was always the healthy one whereas I seemed to gather banal infections and ailments of childhood like flypaper. There was much less understanding in the medical community for children with my... Peculiarities back then."

"Lots of kids hate going to the doctor's," John points out. 

Sherlock looks slightly disappointed.

"I meant that it's not that uncommon to hate stuff because of what happened to you as a kid. I take it this was worse for you than for average children, then," John suggests.

"My work methods rely largely on my sensitivity to things like sounds, smells and textures. I recognize and analyze things others often fail to notice at all. It means that I experience both pleasant and unpleasant sensations very intensely. Now apply that principle to what I've just told you."

Sherlock was usually quite blunt. This roundabout way in which he was attempting to explain things spoke volumes to John. Many people thought that Sherlock's propensity to be distracted by ridiculously minor things was merely a self-aggrandizing gesture, but according to what Sherlock was telling him it was everything but.

"My parents were informed by some so-called experts that I was merely a spoiled, fussy child and needed to be treated accordingly."

John doesn't know what to say. In his mind he tries to imagine what visits to the dentist, days at the fun fair and birthday parties full of screaming children and other things normal children tolerated might have been like for a very small Sherlock. 

For Sherlock the world is, apparently, a constant barrage of intense sensations, and John reasons that it probably takes a great amount of willpower every moment to filter that hurricane of sights, sounds, smells and the like to find the relevant information. 

For John, a busy emergency room is an exciting experience with so many things demanding his attention. For someone like Sherlock, however... Very different. Especially if combined with experiences of unempathetic people who just thought that he just needed to get over himself, stiff up the lip.

"I'm sorry," John says, because what else is there to say, really.

Sherlock purses his lips. "Now you know, then, why I find it difficult to appreciate these so-called well-meaning medical professionals."

Sherlock doesn't venture any further in his explanation but John can deduce the rest.

He trusts John, because John knows him and how his mind works and sometimes he needs John to step in to shield Sherlock from certain things. John realizes he has a habit of taking over the sorts of situations that overwhelm Sherlock. Like trying to sleep in a hospital room filled with sights and sounds that normally wouldn't drive him mad but when he's sick and exhausted it's probably much harder to block them out.

Come to think of it, what John has just been told is not such a revelation after all. No one would ever claim Sherlock was normal in any sense of the word, but many would assume it was mostly just an act, this peculiar way in which he interacted with the world.

An act it was indeed - a desperate act of self-preservation.

Sherlock turns to his side again, trying to arrange the assortment of monitoring wires, arterial and other IV lines so that he can lift his left hand on his pillow next to his cheek without any lines getting too taut. The monitor sound effects have been turned off apart from the alarms, all of which are silent at the moment.

John's places a hand on Sherlock's shoulder for a moment and then tucks it under his own pillow. He then closes his eyes. 

All he can hear now is just the the soft, low hum of the air conditioning and the steady, reassuring sound of Sherlock's breathing.


	7. Chapter 7

The night is mostly uneventful. Sherlock tosses and turns a bit and at one point gets a bit tangled in his ECG wires. John renders assistance after being awakened by an accidental elbow to the chest. When Sherlock falls asleep again John considers returning to the doctors' lounge, but the thought of traipsing across the chilly hallway does not entice. He stays.

At six a nurse sneaks in to draw a set of blood samples from the arterial line. At around seven in the morning Dr Harris enters with the intention of doing the morning rounds. She pauses in the doorway, taking in the scene. After a brief hesitation, she gently taps on John's bicep. 

He wakes up, tries to turn and falls off the bed. Gracie stifles a laugh and helps him up. John straightens his t-shirt. 

Sherlock pays them no mind - he's still slumbering deep enough to be snoring slightly.

"Rough night?" Gracie asks, looking amused. "I thought you were going to sleep in the lounge?"

"We-- He was---," John tries to explain but realizes that telling others that Sherlock might have asked him to do this is a bit not good, really. And it's not just because it would give people the wrong idea about the nature of their relationship. It's more due to the fact that it's nobody's business, really, and John feels rather protective over the fact that he is likely be the only person on the planet to whom Sherlock would ever present such a wish. "He's my friend," is the only reasonable and sufficiently vague explanation he comes up with.

"I'm not judging, you know. I had a friend like that once," Gracie says.

"Why the past tense? What happened?" John asks, slightly alarmed, expecting some sort of a cautionary tale. They are standing side by side, idly watching the readings on the monitors.

Gracie shrugs, smiling. "I married him is what happened."

John rolls his eyes and Gracie laughs. "I know, I know, people probably jibe you about him all the time."

Gracie opens the window blinds and sunlight floods the room. Sherlock's snoring stops when the bright light hits his closed lids. He shifts on the bed. "Morning," Gracie says quite loudly and John admires her courage. Deliberately waking Sherlock Holmes up can lead to many different results, none of which are even remotely pleasant to the person doing the waking. 

Sherlock grabs the pillow John had been using during the night and covers his head with it. Gracie grabs it and tucks it under her armpit. "Time for rounds."

Sherlock slowly pushes himself to a sitting position. "Considering you're likely on my brother's payroll, I'd expect a more amicable bedside manner."

"I am not on your brother's payroll. True, he has kindly offered to help me reorganize my holiday time with my boss while I handle your case but that doesn't mean I won't expect you to adhere to the same rules as all the other patients."

Sherlock looks at John with indignation, as though expecting for him to intervene somehow. 

"Don't look at me," John says, raising his hands.

Gracie goes through the day's results. Then she enquires about Sherlock's pain levels - substantially lessened but not gone is the answer she gets. She examines him while John excuses himself to get some breakfast and fresh clothes. 

 

 

 

Gracie returns around noon to deliver the results of the latest CT scan. 

Sherlock looks up from the bed. He's been doing the crossword from a newspaper, occasionally consulting John about the pop culture reference parts. John has been editing a blog post and pauses when Gracie clears her throat.

"The swelling is gone and combined with the fact that you're no longer showing sign of peritoneal irritation I think we might declare this pancreatitis phase officially over and done with. That was fast, I gotta say, though I have read some case reports from Brazil with similar outcomes."

John nods. Sherlock chews the end of his pen, frowning at the remaining empty spaces on the crossword.

"How are we, then?" Gracie asks.

"We are certainly fine," Sherlock says, emphasizing the first word.

"He's whiny and wants to go home. I think it's a good sign," John remarks, smiling.

"I'm not 'whiny'."

"Mycroft promised to come by later so you can yell at him some, maybe that'll cheer you up," John suggests.

Gracie purses her lips. "Well, I'm off then. If you look at the case reports, this was most likely the last hurdle. I don't think there's anything further you might need me for - any ICU consultant can sort out the rest. Plus there's always a shortage of beds here so I think you might get kicked off to a regular ward soon."

Sherlock puts down his crossword. "This has been... Bearable," he offers.

John chuckles. "That's the best praise you're ever going to get, basically."

"I'm certain your arachnid collection is fascinating," Sherlock adds politely. 

John does not look that keen. He's had enough of stingy critters for awhile.

"Oh you shouldn't have said that," Gracie jokes and digs out her phone. "I have pictures."

John flips down the lid of his laptop. "You two are not serious. Tell me you're not serious. You just went through hell because of a goddamned bug and now you want to see more of them."

Gracie shows John an image on his phone. "This is Albert," she tells him. The image depicts what seems to be quite a large tarantula with red-striped legs.

Sherlock leans over the edge of the bed to see better. "Do you have any funnel web ones?"

Gracie flips through the image gallery on her phone. "Not any of the worst ones, but something quite similar, yes--"

Sherlock glances at his flatmate. "Oh come off of it, John. Most spiders are quite harmless."

 

 

\- The End -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was the last bit, then. I humbly thank all you wonderful readers and commenters - it's been a blast! I shall return with a sequel to "The Road of Bones" in a few weeks.


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